


To Wed Annihilation

by CrimsonFootsteps



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cultural Differences, F/F, F/M, Trans Character, magical interrogation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFootsteps/pseuds/CrimsonFootsteps
Summary: Princess Annabella of Athenra is on a mission.  She is a Sorceress, esteemed at the Academia, and recently has begun her training in the Scholarly Inquisition, the better to aid law enforcement in stopping the violent rebellions in her country without doing undue harm to the rebels themselves-- clearly misguided and lied to by a leader who needs to be dealt with.The last thing she needs or wants in her life is to be carted off to marry the Heir to the Throne of Iladril, a General nicknamed 'the Darkness,' the 'Butcher,' and 'Annihilation.'*Clovys Teiravel of Iladril is a driven woman, someone who takes her perfection on the battlefield and as an heir to her father's throne perhaps almost too seriously.  She is a master on the battlefield, but remains haunted by the loss of a force early in her career,- a force murdered under flag of truce by the very force she now has been slowly annihilating.  To give up revenge for friends murdered without honor, for a wedding alliance that brings only treasure to their proud land, sits poorly with Clovys.  She has no intention of being distracted by a beautiful young bride.Rating for future chapters.





	1. It's Not So Bad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> This story was entirely inspired by Femslash Exchange 2018. Though I came in too late to be a part of it, I was highly inspired by several concepts for this pairing, but especially the one to whom I gifted this fic. I have not posted it to the collection yet, since it is a work in progress, but I hope that watching it develop will be exciting.
> 
> Please see the end notes for additional warnings.

Voices echoed down the hall. Annabella had an inkling what that was about, and couldn't help the slight wrinkle of her nose as she turned back to the prisoner chained in front of her.

He was a scrawny creature, clearly malnourished, with heavy bruising along the left side of his face that probably made it difficult to move his lips, much less to talk. Still, she could see his tongue working inside his swollen cheek, perhaps at the root of a broken tooth. She wondered if it helped to distract from the damage, or if he was trying to make the pain more fresh, so he would not be tempted to stop his resistance.  He hadn't given her any information yet, although his demeanor was less hostile than it had been when she'd stepped into the room.

With time, with a subtle weaving of magic, she could have erased that hostility entirely. She could have made him understand that she was not the enemy, that he had been tricked by a cruel person who lied who used his kind as blunt but random weapons against the monarchy. But she could hear from the commotion outside that she did not have that time, and her stomach twisted, imagining the poor soul in front of her, already so brutalized, at the mercy of the sort of interrogator who might enter the cell after.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, Temony. I'm going to have you give me the location of the remaining weapons."

His spine straightened and his eyes went harsh again, their pale green color almost glowing in the dim room. "I won't," he spat, voice slurred by his swollen cheek, "tell you anything, Spawn of the Usurper!"

Annabella stepped forward, a bit to the side in case he tried to do anything, and prepared a Weaving in the air. Her small, delicate fingers were dexterous enough to be perfect for this sort of thing, the nearly invisible colors writhed and blinked, like heat shimmer, in the air before her as she gradually made the pattern more and more complex, tugging one line here with her ring finger and drawing another with her index finger there.

"That's alright, Temony," she said, when it was done. "I admire your loyalty, even though it's misplaced. But I haven't asked you to tell me anything. I said I was going to have you give it to me."

Her flat palm struck the Weaving and a burst of faint orange light shot from the edges of her hand.

The man on the chair shuddered. Tendrils of orange light seemed to burrow into his eyes, into the holes of his eardrums, into his mouth. He choked, then sucked in shuddering gasp after gasp. His body spasmed in the chair.

"Come now," Annabella said gently. "It hardly hurts that much. Stop resisting me."

She laid her palm on the Weaving again.

"In--" the words seemed torn from Temony, harsh, as if he tried to bite them back with his teeth and yet couldn't. "--Brightorchard-- Calden... Lane--- Weirmere--- damn you!"

"Thank you," Annabella said brightly. She pulled the Weaving out of the air and swept it back into her body, wincing slightly at the sharp feeling of the orange energy. "I'll see to it that you get some food and water. I do hope you come to understand that these lies they are telling you are only getting people hurt."

He only groaned, though she saw him glare at her, the glitter of his eyes the distinct desire to do her violence. She didn't really understand. Anyone else would have tortured that information out of him. She'd used an expedient method that didn't cause him much pain at all.

"Well, I'm afraid..." and she was, there was no prevarication there, "that I have a prior engagement this evening. Please think about things a little more, Temony."

She forced a smile, but it didn't seem as warm and natural as usual to her, something pulled oddly taut in the muscles of her face, as she slipped out of the interrogation cell. In the hall, she turned, and the smile wilted further as she saw they were already practically upon her.

Alain looked annoyed. He was as stern and whip-cord thin as ever in his impeccable doublet, the chain of his office a little loose on his narrow shoulders. Rosette was red in the face, perhaps from arguing with him. They both raked considering glances across her.

Rosette then quickly stepped across, in front of the Chamberlain, as if to avoid a confrontation. "Come, my lady," she urged, "we must get you properly prepared and changed. We won't make the introductory dinner if the carriages don't leave within an hour."

"I told you following such extraneous-" Alain began haughtily.

"Extraneous?" Annabella's eyes widened and she whirled on him. "Our people are _dying_ from these weapons! Women, children, whoever steps near them. I uncovered the location, and I am going to ensure that the Watch has those locations before we touch a stitch of my clothes or toilette."

"Princess-" Rosette said desperately.

"In honesty," Annabella continued,- knowing that the fury bubbling inside her was now speaking for her, the fear and the desperation lending it phrases,- "I believe it is more _extraneous_ to send me off to marry some warmonger in Iladril, to stop a war that doesn't affect us, except to temporarily damage some of the trading routes. We can already buy and sell Iladril five times over. They won't attack _us_. And we have a pernicious rebel element that hates the crown, and they won't stop with random attacks. They will go after Father's life next--"

"Princess," Alain said, much more harshly, as if his deep voice could make her own slam back behind her lips. "It is not your place."

It hit her like a slap in the face.  As if a chill went down her.  That they thought so little of her, when she had accomplised so much.  _Not her place_ to worry for her people, for her _father?_ She blinked angry tears away and forced her voice to be level and cold. "Nor is it yours, Chamberlain," she said, and her voice trembled with emotion despite her attempt to keep it even, "to presume to tell me what to do with my time."

Afraid that she would burst into tears, or perhaps flames, on the spot, Annabella turned on her heel and marched toward the Watch Inquisitor's office. She could hear them arguing behind her, softer than before, but patently ignored it, making her face as stern a mask as she could and aware that the flush that she could feel burn hot across her cheeks didn't help her.

Her very fair, freckled skin had always blushed fiercely at her slightest mood, making hiding them practically impossible.

She knocked on the heavy metal-enforced door when she got to it, hoping she could be heard through the thick wood without damaging her knuckles. Thankfully, it swung open a moment later and she was able to convey to the head of the Watch what she had learned from the prisoner.

He nodded. "We'll send Scholar Inquisitors to each location with devices to pinpoint the magic involved. We'll have them cordoned off first, curfewed, so no one stumbles into one till they're controlled." And then he reached out and grasped her elbow, something he had never done before, and probably, Annabella thought bitterly, because he could tell how upset she was. But the warm pressure made it harder to hold back her tears.

"You did well, Scholar," he said gently, and tears poured down her cheeks. She resisted the urge to snuffle, to let out all the fury and frustration, to curl around his broad shoulders like a child.

She took his handkerchief and blotted off her tears, trying not to leave herself puffy.

But when she turned, Alain tsked. "And now you'll have swollen eyes. Really, Annabella, this is patently ridic-"

"It's a six hour carriage ride," Annabella snapped back, grasping Rosette's hand and pulling her along with her, trying to leave the man in the dust. "The moment I get to the courtyard, they'll offer me a chance to refresh my toilette. There's no point trying to be perfect when we leave. Just _charming_. We can perfect it there."

Rosette nodded exuberantly and practically skipped to keep up, reminding Annabella a bit of an excited puppy, though she knew that thought was unkind. "I can do charming in thirty minutes!" she said, and practically pirouetted.

***

Rosette was certainly Annabella's secret weapon when it came to looking stellar at required social events while still completing her studies and duties, first at the Sorcerers' Academia, and then at the Scholar Inquisitor Tower. Rosette was tiny, even shorter than Annabella, who was diminutive enough, and slim too, but she was both ridiculously quick on her feet and smart as a whip, though she often tried to play it down in order to seem cuter to a potential beau.

Her own dark gold hair was done in five ringlets and secured with a pin at the base of her neck, and she had dressed in a simple and demure dress of dark rose color, very suitable for a lady's maid. The color looked fine against her tawny complexion.

She took only a second or two to remark in disgust on the bloody spit that stained Annabella's skirts-- Annabella had forgotten, until she mentioned it, that Temony had done that-- then, Rosette sprang full into action. She stripped her mistress down to her shift, washed her with rosewater, perfumed her underarms, the backs of her earlobes, the backs of her knees, and between her breasts.   Although Rosette was like a sister to her, the warm oil, curled in sensitive places with a single finger, made her shiver, and she knew she was trembling slightly by the time it was done.

Certainly, it would not have been more compromising than that the way Rosette manhandled her mistress' heavy, full, breasts into the corset, so that just the proper amount of cleavage and full white mounds would show without it being vulgar, but having herself lifted and pressed wasn't arousing at all, particularly when a jaded eye measured the level of each breast and then reached in to _adjust_. Annabella muttered that there was little point, since she'd probably have to bathe, that they could have made it more comfortable for the trip.

"I'm sorry, my lady," Rosette said, but didn't stop lacing the corset tight with her deceptively strong hands. "But you'll be seen."

She was allowed to wear a less heavy dress, only one layer of stiff damask silk over her undergarments, her shifts, and two petticoats. And Rosette was kind enough to facilitate an easy braided chignon with few pins, so they wouldn't get rammed into her skull if the carriage shook. The seats always seemed to have been designed for someone several inches taller.

The rest of her gowns and toilette, her jewelry, had already been packed and placed in the coaches. Annabella sighed as she was pronounced finished and then provided only a small glass of water before she was bundled off to the carriage.

Wine would have been much appreciated.

Two coachmen sat in the rack in front, resplendent in uniforms of Athenra's violet and gold. One soldier entered the cabin before them and pulled first Annabella, then Rosette, inside. Rosette had packed a small basket of food and wine, though Annabella well knew the road between Athenra and Iladril was so bad that she wouldn't be able to drink wine unless they stopped, and they were too far behind schedule to stop.

At best she could hope for bites of bread, cheese, cured meat and fruit, to be sampled carefully lest her stomach sour from the ugly rocking of the carriage. She would have liked to read, but had never been able to do that in a moving conveyance.

She asked Rosette if she'd brought cards (Rosette was something of a fiend for gambling), and hearing that she had, set up a game with the three of them, the soldier somewhat reluctant. When losing to her maid became boring, she ate a little in bits and pieces and attempted half a glass of wine, very careful as it sloshed up, practically past the rim of the glass, at every bump, and her companions gasped in fear.

Finally, she finished it, with no more trouble than a sop of a clean handkerchief on her lip, and leaned back on the cushions, closed her eyes. She asked Rosette to sing, and listened to her sweet, light thready voice until it sounded dusty with need for drink.

Then she merely lost herself in brooding thoughts and a bored half-doze frequently broken as she was thrown half off her seat.

They should use my dowry, she thought viciously, to build a better road.

***

She was exhausted when they reached Lavellis, the capital of Iladril. At the castle courtyard, her feet actually slipped coming down from the carriage. She was certain she reeked, and more certain she wouldn't stay awake during the ceremony, but perhaps a little food would help. Out of pure reflex, she smiled through her introduction to the head of household for this castle, a tall, full-figured and rather redoubtable looking woman.

She had her hand kissed by a representative of the Iladril royal family, a dark-skinned man in elaborate clothes with hair much longer than men wore it in Athenra.

Then, she was whisked away to be bathed-- thankfully with cold water, standing, or she undoubtedly would have fallen asleep--, redressed (with just as much uncomfortable manhandling) in a fresh shift, fresh petticoats, with fresh perfume. Then she finally got to have her knees practically buckle under the heavy velvet dress, dark purple in color, with pleated double skirts and gold embroidery. As a reward, Rosette tipped her some strong tea and painted cold cosmetic on her face.

By the end of it, she felt awake enough to survive a dinner. In bridal style, her hair was left loose, but Rosette slipped heavy earrings in gold and emerald on her ears, and a matching necklace over the low decolletage of her gown.

At the door, the soldier, refreshed, caught her hand to escort her to the dining room.

***

The hall was larger than Annabella had expected. Her people had always viewed Iladril as poor, excellent in its military but otherwise unexceptional, and thus somewhat backward. But this hall was twice the size needed by its long banquet table, leaving a broad expanse of gleaming ebony floor available for a dance. For now, men and women lined up along it in respectful poses, courtiers on one side and soldiers on the other. Alain, who had traveled in another coach, stepped up immediately as Annabella crossed the threshold of the room, and took her arm roughly as the soldier disengaged.

He smelled very strongly of cinnamon.

Annabella tried to ignore the close presence of someone she despised as she held her head elegantly, walking along the hall past person after person who would be scrutinizing her, careful for any sign of her inadequacy. She tried to ignore that Alain's hand on her arm hurt slightly, and didn't spasm her own hand on his bicep in return.

As they stepped up toward the long table, two people stepped out of line, one from one side of the line and one from the other. From the courtier's line came a man whom she instantly recognized as the King of Iladril.

He was very old, as stories told, but his eyes were sharp, and Annabella thought, kind. He wore elaborate finery almost with humor. His white hair was almost as long as hers and plaited in an elaborate braid.

She sank into a deep courtesy as he stepped before her, and only rose when his hand lifted, inviting his son to join them.

But that second figure who stepped before her... was not a son.

Annabella could not help but stare, and was certain a faint blush already touched her cheeks, since she couldn't hide her emotions, and her surprise was only echoed by hope and pleasure at the idea that she would be wedded to a woman.

And this woman was beautiful. She was tall, at least 1.9 meters, and muscled like a warrior. The exposed skin of her long, lean arms and legs was a very dark brown, with a copper undertone. When she moved, the iron muscles moved, with both grace and a promise of violence, like some great cat. Her face was elegant, though stern enough to not appear particularly feminine. The features were not gracile, and only the triangular line of her jaw, her large tilted eyes, leaned her androgyny toward the feminine.

Her hair was black and the sides were shaved close with intricate designs. Then, thin braids had been pulled back and around, constraining the rest of her long straight hair, which was loose and almost knee length. Metal daggets like those the Athenra used on sleeve cords were attached at the end of her braids.

She wore the leathers of an Iladril military commander with no discernible sign of rank. Her eyes were honey-colored and very cold, and meeting them made Annabella shiver and reconsider her earlier relaxation.

Maybe this woman was every bit as bad as the Heir. Though she couldn't imagine it. Clovys had a reputation on the battlefield best described as 'pure annihilation.' He wasn't a general or a warrior, he was a butcher. He left everything in his wake stained red, and Annabella hated the idea of having to courtesy to him, kiss his hand, pretend it was alright, his little massacres.

War was one thing, but at Clovys' level, even a layman could see Iladril's continued offensive was mere bullying.

She wasn't sure what to do, faced with this woman, and it was clear Alain was not either. After a moment, Annabella courtesied.

The King said, "Welcome, Annabella of Athenras. I am honored to introduce you to my heir, Clovys Teiravel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene involves interrogation. Annabella uses magic to force someone to perform an action they find abhorrent, and though she doesn't find it troublesome, it most certainly is. It also includes very brief misgendering (of a cisgendered female character as male, due to cultural assumptions).


	2. Blood and Marble

General Teiravel could not have been in less of a mood for merriment.

She had just been at the monument.

A paltry thing, she always thought, and in the overcast, the air heavy with freezing humidity under a pale metal-colored sky, wind licking against the ribbons of the most recent bouquets to be laid there, it looked even more paltry still. The people of Iladril did not like to remember defeats. They did not like to remember tragedies. It had taken a great deal of political maneuvering, of work with friends and promises to people she respected not at all, to make this little thing come to be.

And that made her want to cut a few throats, or at the very least administer a few deserved horsewhippings. To think that nobody cared about the young, able and bright-minded men and women who had gone out to serve their country and been tortured to death in an ignominious trap... that this was NOT something they wanted to remember forever... that to erect a small statue with a modest inscription, where friends and family, and usually Clovys herself, could lay flowers, had required such wheeling and dealing...

Well, it made her sick. It made her want to drink hot blood. Made her fingers ache, that remembered twitch where they longed for, waited for, blissed for the remembered curve against the hilt of her sword or the handle of her pistol.

It was hard not to remember, when she went there. But she went there every day she could, usually every two or three days. She knelt and used a soft cloth to wash away any grit from sand or rain on the small monument, and she tipped from her personal flask, which she rarely ever imbibed of, drops of whiskey for the soldiers who had liked to drink. She had never drunk with any of them, it was patently unacceptable- she was Heir to a throne, and General in the bargain... but she had watched them as she watched all the men set on campaign with her, watched their faces light up, listened to what they spoke of.

She'd walked the camps late at night and talked to them about their loved ones, their desires when they grew out of required service, or if they meant to stay in service, she'd listened to where they wished to be stationed, and sometimes made notes immediate to the relevant authorities.

And this time, she knew every single face. Every name was etched into her mind as if it had been burned there. She'd read the list enough times. Had personally sent a letter to every family. And she had this memorial built, as little as it was.

But it wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough. Not for the entrapment and slaughter of HER soldiers in order to make something as pathetic as a... a political point.

She reached out and smoothed her long fingers over the marble and then her lips curled back from her teeth in something that nobody would properly call a smile.

Well. Taranaos had made its political point, and Clovys had made hers. City after city captured, army after army routed. She had pulled down statues, razed public images. The grotesque little boy-king thought he could get away with murdering her people as a personal message? Well, she would give him enough messages he'd drown in the blood and paper.

And there was another point to it all, if she wanted to think upon it. Iladril did not like to remember defeats, but it LOVED to remember victories. When Clovys had brought the entirety of their pathetic little enemy state to its knees, she would not have to beg or borrow in order to raise a beautiful statue to that victory, right by the monument she now stroked in memory, and that beautiful, expensive memorial to the war she had won would be the proper honor that the dead of Thalingoke deserved.

*

She was late enough returning to the palace that her majordomo met her halfway across the yard. He never showed a trace of emotion, his facade as impeccable as that of a fortress wall, but sometimes the way he breathed sounded just a little too loud, and that was a promise that he was concerned or something was untoward.

"Sir, your fiancee is already at her toilette. You hardly have time to be ready for the ball," he said.

Cortenay was the best personal attendant Clovys had ever had, in a lifetime as an officer in the field, and the best majordomo as well. Outside of war, he tended to fall without ceremony into the position of a sort of valet, and she had never felt that she would risk losing his wit and will by saying a word about it.

Now, though, she was in no mood to coddle visiting dignitaries. "What readiness is needed?" she asked coldly.

Cortenay swallowed. After a moment he ran his hand through the bottom part of his hair- an old gesture from before he had begun to live as he truly was, as a man, and one he rarely did unless he was truly nervous. Clovys felt like a cad for bringing it on, and paused, turning to make deliberate eye contact with deep blue eyes.

"I'm sorry. I mean it. What is needed?" she gentled her tone. For him, she would do it. Not for the court and their machinations, or Athenra and their money, but for a friend... yes... she would do so.

He nodded slightly, hand dropping to his side. "Your military leathers will be fine, it's a joint military dinner and ball. But we should wash you a bit, you've been rained on and the rain smells like Kaethon's piss."

Kaethon was the god of welders, and the rain certainly did smell like rust and sulphur. Casually, Clovys sniffed one of her braids, and winced.

"Good god. And we don't have time to wash my hair."

"Luckily, you'll only be chatting up the princess tonight. I'll get a sweet-smelling wax and we'll work it through. But I do not recommend standing out in the elements before the chaperoned brunch tomorrow."

Chaperoned... what? Clovys followed along with Cortenay, thinking very strongly that she would like to know what idiot had filled her schedule with so very much incomprehensible twaddle.

"I'm not attending a chaperoned brunch, even for you, darling," she said, and gave him a vicious smile.

"General-"

"No." She held out a hand. "I have agreed to..." A finger, like a dark tower, rose at each point she raised, "marry the daughter of the King of Athenra. Be sociable at public affairs. Avoid the Athenra trade routes with my battles. That is MORE than enough for anyone to demand. I will not attend brunches and walk with her with a chaperone like some lovesick little poet. I have a war to win."

"General!" Cortenay said again, but he sounded resigned, and at any rate, Clovys strode past him without a word, to the palace and to clean herself up for the ball.

*

Clovys adored her father. Leannard was the best of men, the most intelligent, the most thoughtful and the most attentive. When she had been a child, she had found nothing as pleasurable as sitting on his lap and helping him or watching him play chess. After she'd beaten him in chess most of the time, he had set her there, a comfortable eight year old, while he pretended to test military tactics, moving pieces around on a great and beautiful map. Learning to move the pieces, on his lap, covered by a blanket, was still one of her favorite memories.

And today, rather than make the entire event the affair of the politicians, of the nobles, he had made it half military. To stand across from the man she loved most, at the head of the line of men and women she loved and would die for, made the icy, horrible knot in her stomach ease. It made the pride in her that wanted to deny this, wanted to be anywhere else, remember that to do so would be to harm them as well.

It made it easy to stand, cool and attentive and Heir to Iladril. Easy to watch the Athenra procession walk up the aisle without quailing or letting her lip curl.

Dear God, they were tiresome!

The man had a vice grip on the princess, and was pretending not to by his easy smile- a toddler would have seen through it and avoided him. The princess... God, she looked like a doll. That wasn't hyperbole, either. The girl was small and her skin, while it wasn't precisely the colour of porcelain, was nearly as pale with a crushed rose complexion beneath. And they had her dressed in a gown so stiff that it barely moved as she stepped beneath it, and she was obviously exhausted by its weight, and no one cared. The gown was... 

Clovys couldn't even say it was attractive. She had never liked playing with dolls. And that was the only thing she could think of, looking at that heavy purple gown. Looking at the heavy gold earrings, the heavy gold necklace, and the pale, tiny girl who was weighted down with it all, with her brilliantly red curls and her eyes, huge, much larger than the eyes of any woman Clovys had met, and the colour of seawater.

And she'd blushed red as a cloister apple when introduced to Clovys. As if she hadn't known who she'd marry- indeed, both of the emissaries stammered, out of sorts, and Clovys tilted her head, eyes narrowed.

"There... must be some mistake," said the man, nervelessly. "Annabella was to marry the General and Heir of--"

"Yes," Leannard said calmly and kindly, "the arrangement has been made to marry your princess Annabella to my heir, my daughter Clovys."

Clovys watched, and blinked rapidly, as the entire cadre from Athenra flinched at the word daughter.

She had more direct contact with other countries than her father did. It occurred to her that pure patriarchy was not uncommon. She had nothing whatsoever to do with the arrangement of the marriage, or the treaty that went with it, but she knew discomfort when she saw it.

She had two choices: she could exacerbate that discomfort and destroy the marriage, allowing her free for her own required enterprises, or she could uphold her father's good reputation in the neighboring countries.

She stepped forward, taking the Princess Annabella's tiny, soft hand in hers, and noting with amusement that the girl blushed scarlet again at the touch. 

"My lady," she said, dropping to one knee. It barely put her below the little doll's eyeline. "May I presume that your family and yourself believed that I was a man when they tendered the marriage proposal?"

The doll's blue-green eyes were wide. She nodded.

Clovys thought she might set the pretty thing afire if she kissed her hand, and resisted... with effort... the strong urge to do so. Instead, she stroked her thumb over the soft skin at the back of her hand. "Alright. We aren't bullies here in Iladril. If you wish to back out of the engagement, then of course-"

"We don't!" Annabella said, breathlessly.

The man next to her turned on her, tugging her arm roughly, and of a sudden, Clovys had entertained enough of him. She did not rise from her knee, but she did lift her other hand, grasp his wrist, dig her fingers in until he let go of the sweet little doll's arm. God, she could see bruises there. The son of a bitch was lucky this was a public ball, or he would get a firsthand encounter with a woman who could bruise him like he'd never been bruised before.

She stood up, still grabbing the arrogant man's wrist so hard she could feel his bones scrape beneath her grip, and turned to give him her least kind, least understanding stare. "If the princess wishes to continue this engagement, it is our duty to get to know one another. I suppose you must... discuss the Athenra deal with my father?"

She despised leaving the odious fellow to her father, but at least he couldn't hurt Leannard. Not like he was obviously hurting Annabella. It was disgusting, and while Clovys had no time at all for the bruisable little doll, and no interest in being distracted for a pretty little timepiece, well.

She wasn't going to watch an exhausted young woman be manhandled and insulted right in front of her.

She released her grip on Annabella's hand and offered her arm. "Come, darling," she said.

And then something shifted, something strange, because the warm, flushed, vulnerable little doll that Clovys had just saved took one step, curved her hand around Clovys' arm, and was suddenly ice cold and untouchable and stared at Clovys with open contempt.

It was... an odd experience.

Clovys licked her lips, ignored the baleful stare, and led the princess to the edge of the ball and out on to a balcony. It wasn't raining, though the air still smelled vaguely unpleasant. The girl, on the other hand, smelled of a warm floral scent Clovys hadn't experienced.

The moment they were outside, Clovys let go of her arm. She stalked to the rail, turned. "Right," she said flatly. "I don't know where I stand with you."

"You don't," the doll snapped back.

Clovys narrowed her eyes. "You seemed happy enough to see me, to have me help you out there. So what's changed?"

"I just remembered you're a butcher," said Annabella. "It doesn't matter if you're a woman. It doesn't matter. You still annihilate opponents you could... honor."

Clovys felt cold. "What are you honestly talking about?"

"Taranaos. You are burning them to embers. You're not accepting surrender. It's disgusting."

And the cold turned to ice, and the ice to fury. "How dare you," she hissed, and took a step forward. The girl didn't back away, but by God, she was trembling. Clovys lowered her fist to her side. She didn't raise her voice. "You have NO idea what this war is about. All your country cares about is money, so don't pretend the loss of life upsets you."

She wanted to say more. Talk about the useless doll, talk about how afraid she'd been. Talk about how furious she was, about the atrocity she was answering. But she didn't.

Because the redheaded little doll slapped her in the face.

It didn't hurt. In fact, she would wager it hurt the girl's hand worse. But it startled her, made her stare down into aquamarine eyes that were absolutely glowing, and the girl said:

"I'm forced to be here instead of stopping the loss of life in MY country, so don't insult me by saying I don't know what war is. Maybe I just don't know what massacre is!"

Clovys blinked, wanted to respond, but the little doll was a whirl of heavy skirts, and despite her obvious exhaustion snapped and stepped her way out of the hall so fast that Clovys could not catch her.

*

"God, you're a pretty little thing. Shame your mistress hates mine with the fire of a thousand hells."

Rosette glanced up. The person standing next to her was average height, lean and muscular, with mid-back-length black hair pulled back in complicated braids, the sides shaved into patterns, though not as complex patterns as General Clovys had sported.

If Rosette looked at the curve of the chest, even bound, or the flesh on the legs, or even the eyes, this person was a woman. Yet this person was dressed as a man by the standards of Iladrilian society. And while the women in the military dressed the same as the men, they did their hair differently. They wore cosmetics. 

She didn't want to hurt someone if they were passing. She knew enough from her sister's experience... being hurt, being flogged... for being born with a cock. Nobody deserved that. Everybody was right about who they were.

She took a second, after thinking about his gender and about her sister, and biting back that pit of hell, to remember and hear what he'd said. He, yes? Could she... could she ask?

"I... thank you..." she said. It was stilted. She was never so weak. She had a reputation for bringing anyone, man or woman, to their knees. And she was afraid. "You're... handsome, darling?"

The smile that answered her made her own knees go weak. Dear Lord, she'd never imagined that bringing pleasure to a random young man in Iladril would make her hot and wet, but his smile had... his eyes had...

He was much taller than her. Almost a foot taller. He knelt as he came before her, and gripped the bottom of her skirts with both hands.

"My pretty, pretty, girl," he murmured, pulling oddly down on her skirts, "I'd like to put my mouth on your pretty cunny. I'd like to lick you till you come. And after you come, I'd like to kiss you while I make you come again, with my fingers. And I know you know what I am. But you don't know who I am, yeah?"

Rosette stared at him. Between her legs was on fire from his calm, casual words, and so slick that when she walked forward to get closer to him, the movement of her bloomers against her swollen, excited labia made her have to bite back a moan.

She stepped one more little step closer and said, "I want to know who you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes very mild references to torture. It also includes Cortenay. :D


End file.
